Three years ago, to-day,
We raised our hands to Heaven,
And, on the rolls of muster,
Our names were thirty-seven;
There were just a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven,
As we took our oath of service
With our right hands raised to Heaven.

Oh, 't was a gallant day,
In memory still adored.
That day of our sun-bright nuptials
With the musket and the sword!
Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,
And beneath a cloudless heaven
Far flashed a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven.

Of the thousand stalwart bayonets
Two hundred march to-day;
Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,
And hundreds in Maryland clay;
While other hundreds—less happy—drag
Their mangled limbs around,
And envy the deep, calm, blessed sleep
Of the battle-field's holy ground.

For the swords—one night a week ago,
The remnant, just eleven—
Gathered around a banqueting-board
With seats for thirty-seven.
There were two came in on crutches,
And two had each but a hand,
To pour the wine and raise the cup
As we toasted 'Our Flag and Land!'

And the room seemed filled with whispers
As we looked at the vacant seats,
And with choking throats we pushed aside
The rich but untasted meats;
Then in silence we brimmed our glasses
As we stood up—just eleven—
And bowed as we drank to the Loved and the Dead
Who had made us thirty-seven!